


Welcome to Hallow

by Rainbowfootsteps



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Scary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowfootsteps/pseuds/Rainbowfootsteps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur walked into the small town of Hallow, he expected a sleepy town and a good mug of beer. Instead he's thrown into a terrifying manhunt, and he's the one being hunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter in Hallow

“Shut the fuck up. Go away. You’re so goddamn annoying.” Arthur snapped. The small bluebird chirped in response.  


“I could kill you.” He threatened. The bluebird’s head turned slightly. If he wanted to, he could. One shot from his flintlock could blow the bird into a cloud of feathers, never to haunt the thoughts of weary travellers again. He was sorely tempted to plant lead into the creature, but he only had a few bullets left in his leather ammunition pouch. Perhaps he shouldn’t have shot that shady gambler last night.  


“Fuck off!” In a fit of frustration, he picked up a pebble from the road and threw it at the bird, up in its skeletal tree. It flew off for a moment, then dived back to a perch even closer to where Arthur slowly walked. He groaned and muttered a string of swears. At least the bird gave him a sense of company - even if it felt like the company of a loud drunkard.  


“Did all your friends leave you too?” Arthur asked the bird. For once, as it flitted between the branches to keep up with him, it didn’t reply.  


“Bloody traitors. All of them. Don’t trust anyone, because everyone alive is an imbecile.” He continued. Instead of the bird’s tweets, the reply came from the trees. They scraped against each other in the wind. The scene around them was bleak. Clouds like a sheet of grey covered the sky. The stony road was the same shade as the colourless trees surrounding it. Arthur’s baggy red top was the only trace of vibrance. Even that splash of colour was subdued by the black coat that shrouded it.  


“Winter. Must be harder for you.” Arthur said to the bluebird. It sang a long, low note. Then in a flurry of beating wings it flew away. Fucking finally.

“Hallow.” Arthur read out loud from the eroded stone. He snorted. What kind of a name for a town was ‘Hallow’? The town itself wasn’t memorable. Plain white houses crowded together around thin, cobbled streets. Black street lamps reached up to the sky like lepers begging for money. Arthur felt like the houses around him were holding their breath as he walked through the empty streets. Not a soul walked the streets. Had this town been hit by a sweep of plague or famine? A movement from the corner of his eye made Arthur whip around and pull his gun. He saw someone move away from a window. So he wasn’t alone after all. He cautiously put his gun back in its tattered holster. God, the longer he spent walking through alleys, the more paranoid he would become. He needed to find a pub.

The door to the ‘Bull and Rooster’ was open.  


“Oi, anybody in here?” Arthur called into the darkness. Only an echo responded. He stepped into the store. It looked like an average pub, simple chairs sitting at simple tables. The only unique thing about it was the complete lack of people. With a long sniff, he sauntered to the beer keg. He tugged at the tap. It moved, but nothing came out.  


“Hey!” A sharp whisper made Arthur jump. He dived behind the keg.  


“Who’s there?” He hissed back. The voice muttered something. Arthur peeked out from behind the keg. A man with messy long hair was hiding behind a table, only visible from this low angle.  


“Get out of here!” The man whispered.  


“You still have time before nightfall.” He continued. Arthur would have laughed, but something in the man’s tone concerned him.  


“What happens at nightfall?” He asked. The man didn’t reply. Realising how comically stupid they looked whispering across the bar on their knees, Arthur stood up and started to walk towards the man. His clothes were somewhat posh but were clearly old and well worn.  


“Go away! Now!” The man’s voice became frantic.  


“Fine. Bloody hell, get some fresh air, you drunkard.” Arthur rolled his eyes. He’d be more than happy to get out of this town. It was starting to unnerve him. 

The town was still silent. Arthur slammed the door of the Bull and Rooster as hard as he could, satisfied at the noise it created. He briskly walked through the streets, retracing his steps. Soon he was leaving the quiet houses behind. He looked behind him at the town. Above it, the moon had risen. It was barely visible between the clouds. A pang of dread consumed his gut.  


“‘You still have time before nightfall…’” He murmured. The rock proclaiming ‘Hallow’ nearly tripped him.  


“Shit!” He yelped, stumbling a little. He slammed into something and gasped as tears bloomed. He opened his screwed-shut eyes and froze. Why did it feel like there was a wall in front of him, when there was nothing in front of him? He ran his hand over whatever it was. Then he started to hit it and kick it.  


“Let me out!” He roared at the invisible barrier. The forest beyond seemed to mock him. On the ground beside his boot, the mangled corpse of a bluebird lay in the dirt.


	2. White eyes

“I’m drunk.” Arthur muttered to himself. That was the only explanation. He looked at his hand. It wasn’t swaying back at forth. He didn’t know whether he wanted it to. He slammed at the wall again, his fist making a dull thud. The light was fading quickly. He had no choice but to return to that godforsaken town. With shallow breaths, he walked back into the town. Thunder rumbled in the distance but no rain fell. The brown door of the Bull and Rooster was still closed from when he’d slammed it shut. He opened it slowly. No lights were on inside.  


“Close the door.” Oh god, that drunkard was still here. Arthur shut the door and walked further into the dim pub.  


“Why can’t I leave town?” He demanded.  


“Is this what you meant about nightfall?” He gestured to the window. No light filtered in from the dusky outside. The man slowly stood up from behind his table. His eyes were hidden behind scraggly hair.  


“Yes.” He murmured.  


“It’s too late now. You’re stuck here. You need to hide, or he’ll find you.” He ducked back behind his table. Arthur stomped over to him and kneeled beside him, hiding himself from the front of the pub.  


“What’s your name, you git?” He asked. Up close he could see how gaunt the man looked. Sleepless nights were evident from the dark under his eyes.  


“Francis.” Was the quiet reply. A bloody frenchman. Stuck in a ghost town with a frenchman. That had to be worse than whatever they were hiding from.  


“Arthur to you. So, Francis, why the hell are we hiding under a table?” Arthur asked. Francis looked at him. For once, Arthur had no words. The blue eyes that stared at him held true terror. 

They sat under the table for half an hour in silence. The darkness consumed everything until Arthur could barely see his hand in front of his face. Rain had started to fall, lashing at the window. It thrummed unpleasantly on the roof above. Arthur’s patience had run thin.  


“Bloody hell, we’re hiding from nothing.” He growled. No sooner had he spoken than a monstrous roar filled the air. He saw Francis go white as a sheet. Something was out there in the storm. But no creature in England made a sound like that. It was inhuman, the howl of a banshee.  


“Jesus christ!” He couldn’t help the outburst, but he was instantly shushed. Arthur looked at Francis incredulously. It had to be a wolf. The acoustics of the bar were making it sound louder, that was what happened. Despite consoling himself with this thought, he still couldn’t bring himself to move from behind the table. The rain fell more forcefully. The glass panes of the window rattled. Slowly Arthur looked out from behind the thick table leg. He could only just see the window. Two white eyes appeared in the window.  


“Shit!” He whispered, jerking back. His heart skipped a beat and he nearly choked on a gasp. Francis was murmuring under his breath in french.  


“Okay, that was just a cat. Cats eyes do that in light.” Arthur gabbled. Everything had a reasonable explanation. The doorknob rattled.  


“Cats don’t do that…” His heart sank and his stomach seemed to disappear. The door creaked open a little. Rain blew in forcefully. Arthur held his breath. After a moment that lasted hours, the door closed again. Arthur rested his forehead on the ground and tried to slow his racing heart. This was stupid. It was all stupid. He lay there for so long that he fell into a restless sleep, dreams haunted by spectres with burning white eyes, and phantoms of his past.

~

When Arthur’s eyes slowly opened, they were met with a table leg. He stared at it for a while. It was splintered and rough. Slowly his mind pieced together the fragments of yesterday. Ghost town. Couldn’t leave. Frenchman. And those eyes, those terrible eyes. He slowly sat up. His head throbbed from the wooden floor and his limbs were stiff. Francis was nowhere to be seen.  


“I could really use a beer.” He called out. The pub was uncomfortably quiet. He glanced at the door. To hell with it. Maybe now he’d be able to get out of this horrible town.

To Arthur’s delight, there was someone else on the street. It was a little disappointing, however, to find it was Francis. An old woman shuffled into a house the instant Arthur left the pub.  


“French git.” Arthur called. Francis turned and looked at him. The fear of last night had faded from his eyes, replaced with a look Arthur knew well. Hopelessness.  


“He took an old man this week. We were lucky.” Francis said, looking down the empty road. Arthur sighed in exasperation.  


“Who are you talking about? Stop being so bloody cryptic.” Arthur demanded. Francis raised his eyebrows.  


“I suppose I owe you an explanation.” He conceded.  


“Come back into the Bull and Rooster and I’ll explain.”


	3. Teach me the forlana

The pub was still silent. Arthur felt rather attached to the place now - it was still the only building he’d entered in Hallow. For the first time he noticed the faded wooden sign hanging on the wall above the beer keg. A scruffy Rooster had its back to a black Bull with red eyes.  


“Please, sit.” Francis gestured to the chair he’d pulled out. Arthur raised an eyebrow but sat down. Francis walked to the window, opened it, then joined Arthur at the table.  


“So what the hell is wrong with this town?” Arthur pressed. Francis sighed and clasped his hands together tightly.  


“Do you believe in the supernatural?”

Images of witches and warlocks sprung to Arthur’s mind.  


“No!” He scoffed.  


“I like a witch trial as much as the next guy, but it isn’t real.” He put as much of an eye roll as he could into ‘real’. Francis sighed again. His eyes stared down at the table.  


“Hallow is… haunted.” He said. Arthur stared at him.  


“Go on then.” He smirked. This guy was bonkers. Francis nodded slightly.  


“We don’t know anything about him. Nobody has ever seen him and lived.” He muttered.  


“Three weeks ago, the barrier around the town appeared. People can come in, but are only able to leave on the day they arrive. Nobody inside the town can leave, including you.” He said darkly. Arthur felt a tingle of dread creep up his spine.  


“Every week he takes a victim at night. The day he comes seems to be random. Last week, he… He took my sister.” Francis said. Arthur didn’t reply. Francis smiled with weary half closed eyes.  


“At this point we’ve given up hope. Food is running out, so if we are not picked off one by one we will soon starve to death.” The way he said it betrayed his fear behind the tired acceptance. Arthur started to laugh. A mirthless, jagged laugh.  


“You’re insane!” He cried.  


“This whole town is. Lost your marbles, the lot of you.” He continued. Francis glared at him.  


“You know that he’s real.” He replied. Arthur’s smile twitched.  


“You’re all loony! I’m not wasting one more second in this bloody pub, in this bloody town, or with bloody ghost stories!” He yelled, and stomped out of the pub.

That day, the record for angriest Englishman’s walk was broken. Arthur stormed down the street with a brow as black as thunder, kicking up sprays of pebbles with every step. There were a few people on the street now. A young child, sitting on an upturned barrel. A cloaked figure slowly limping up the road, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick. Arthur ignored them all, hellbent on his march out of town. Francis walked behind him, following him slowly. Arthur passed the last house quickly. Ahead of him the forest stood, leafless trees swaying gently. There was the rock that proclaimed ‘Hallow’, marking where the barrier stood. He swallowed, his dry throat burning. He slowly reached out his hand. It hit something and his fingers bent. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground, hand pressed against the wall.  
“I’m sorry.” Francis said gently from behind him. Arthur stared at the sepia dirt with glassy eyes.  


“It’s real.” He breathed.  


“It’s real…”

“Come back to Hallow. I have some food tucked away.” Francis offered. Arthur shook his head, slowly standing up.  


“I’m finding a way out.” He said fiercely.  


“I’m not going to let myself die in this hellhole like you are. I’ve survived worse than this! I was in the fire of London!” He yelled. The slight discolouration of his left arm was evidence of this fact.  


“So crawl back to your town. Die in it! I don’t care! I’m finding a way out.” He repeated. Francis shook his head gently.  


“I thought that it would be that easy too when it started. You’ll realise.” He said. He started to walk away, traversing the short distance to town.

Almost all the plants around Hallow were dead. A few spindly trees clung to life, wet moss clumped on its bark. The ground was wet and muddy and the long grass was pale and lifeless. As Arthur followed the dome-shaped wall, one hand brushing over it, he contemplated his fate. Just his luck, to be stuck in a village haunted by a white-eyed spectre. No matter how hard he refused to believe it, the facts were there. The village was closed off from the rest of the world. Arthur realised that he had walked around to the other side of town. There was no road to get out of town from this direction, only a thin dirt path that wandered between fields of unreachable dead corn. He sat down on the roots of a large tree and sighed. The town was now what could, at a stretch, be considered bustling. A few haggard people walked the streets. A woman was pulling water out of a well nearby. Some of the people watched him with a wary eye.  


“Damn you all.” He muttered. His stomach growled. Did he have any food? He checked his belt and pockets. His pistol, his ammunition pouch, a vial of gunpowder, his (empty) money pouch. Not even a crumb. He pulled his brass locket out from under his shirt and flicked it open. The faded painting of a young man smiled up at him. A single lock of hair curled up on his forehead. _Don’t make me dance alone, Arthur!_ He could hear his voice in his mind. _Come on, I’ll teach you the Forlana._ Always excited, always happy. Well. The fire had put an end to that, hadn’t it. He closed the locket and slipped it back into his shirt. He would talk to Francis. He would figure out a way out of Hallow. He wasn’t going to die here. No way in hell.


	4. Heart Of Ash

Pale rays of sun fell on Arthur’s back. He was walking back into town, but not back towards the pub. He was sick of that place. He needed a change of scene - but before that he had to find Francis. His stomach rumbled again.  
“Francis!” He yelled. The young child that had been sitting on a barrel scampered down an alleyway, tiny feet pattering on stone. Gossamer cobwebs hung from every door frame. Where the hell had Francis gone? Arthur glanced up at the grey shingle roof of the house in front of him. To hell with it. 

With a grunt he hauled himself onto the lowest windowsill. Thank god the ceilings in this house were low; Arthur could only just reach the second level windowsills. He hopped a little and grabbed onto the wooden sill. A splinter wedged itself into his skin. He pulled himself up with difficulty. From there it was easy to scramble onto the roof, until finally he was able to see the whole town. The sight was even more bleak from above - the town was quite small, with perhaps only fifteen buildings. A big change from the sprawl of London.  


“Agh!” Arthur exclaimed as a tile came loose, almost sending him crashing to the ground with it. He gazed at the desolate landscape all around him. Was that Francis, to the right of Arthur, on the small portion of farmland inside the barrier? The figure held more than a slight resemblance. Wobbling back down the roof, Arthur started his shaky descent down.

Arthur’s feet had barely touched the ground when a middle-aged woman stormed out of the house.  


“Wha’ are ya doing?” She demanded.  


“Tryin’ tae steal my bread?” At this accusation, Arthur shook his head vehemently.  


“Get out ‘a here!” She screeched, pale hands balled into fists. Arthur didn’t need to be asked twice. He bolted down the street, unwilling to still be around when the woman’s husband made an appearance.

Arthur found Francis kneeling in the dirt of what used to be a crop field, in front of a crudely crafted gravestone. Scratched on it was ‘Lucille’.  


“Your sister.” Arthur guessed. Francis nodded. A withered purple flower leaned on the gravestone.  


“Look, I’m sure you miss her, but I think we could both use something to eat.” Arthur prompted. Francis looked up at him, anger and sadness mingling in his eyes.  


“Give me a moment to grieve.” He said quietly but fiercely, looking back down at the gravestone.  


“She was so beautiful, so compassionate. She could beat anyone at cards.” A short laugh was muffled by a choked sob. Arthur sighed impatiently.  


“Hungry? Food? Ring a bell?” He commented. Francis stood up.  


“You have no idea what it’s like to feel emotion, do you?” He growled. Arthur raised an eyebrow.  


“People die every day. Why should I feel sorry for them?” He replied. He had grieved over Alfred. Oh, he had wailed. At least Lucille had a grave, a final resting place. Alfred was gone in an instant, burned in front of Arthur until nothing was left, his screams replaced by the roar of flames. Arthur had decided then that emotion was useless. It only slowed you down and took you to places you no longer wanted to go. Francis’ eyes darkened.  


“You are a heartless beast.” Francis said angrily. Arthur rolled his eyes.  


“You spend too much time in the past when you should be caring about the present.” He shot back. They glared at each other. Suddenly a wailing filled the air, like the one Arthur had heard last night. Francis stared about wildly.  


“But it’s daytime!” He cried, backing away from the field towards the village.  


“You.” A breathy voice echoed in Arthur’s mind and he clamped his hands to his ears.  


“I’m coming for you, newcomer.” It whispered.  


“Go away!” He yelled.  


“Maybe tonight…. Maybe the night after…. Maybe now…” The voice murmured. Arthur closed his eyes tight.  


“Your heart will turn to ash. I will feast on your bones…”


	5. Les Catacombes

“It’s never done that before, has it.”  


“No.”  


“You think I’m screwed.”  


“...Yes.” Francis admitted. Arthur rolled his eyes, trying to keep his mind of the fear rising in his gut. He sat at Francis’ table, in the upper floor of one of the many identical houses. Apparently this road was called ‘Bluebell avenue’. The name was far too happy for the dismal road.

The room wasn’t much to look at, either. The low cream walls were bare save for the windows and a faded painting of a vase of flowers. There was hardly any furniture in the room Arthur sat in and the house seemed to only have three rooms. There was a faint smell of decaying meat. Arthur tried not to think about the smell as he bit into the slice of stale bread.  


“I’m not going to let some asshole of a ghost kill me.” He said through a mouthful of bread. Francis raised an eyebrow but said nothing. After a struggle to swallow his dry meal, Arthur rested his arms on the table.  


“Why are you so pessimistic all the damn time?” He complained. Francis gave him a pointful glower.  


“Living in fear day and night for three weeks doesn’t exactly make you optimistic.” He said with a frown.  


“I’ve lived my whole _life_ trying to avoid getting killed by the powers that be. Didn’t suck out my spirit.” Arthur replied. Francis looked ready to rain hellfire down on Arthur, but pursed his lips instead.  


“There’s gotta be somewhere we can start. Otherwise we’re just running around like headless chickens.” Arthur muttered, staring out of the dirty window. The sun was almost to the middle of the sky.  


“Does this town have a graveyard?” He asked. Francis’ eyes flickered right then looked down.  


“Well..” He murmured. Arthur squinted suspiciously.  


“It’s a yes or no question, frog.” He huffed. Francis sighed.  


“There is no graveyard. But there are catacombs under the town. They were here long before Hallow. But it’s dangerous down there. It’s not worth falling down a trap and breaking your neck.” Francis warned.  


“Anything’s better than being killed by some creepy ghost. Show me them.” He demanded. Francis sighed again. Bloody hell, if there was one thing this frenchman was good at, it was sighing.

~

There was only one entrance to the catacombs inside the town of Hallow. Francis led him to a seemingly empty house, identical - on the outside at least - to the one they had just been in. This house, however, had a basement, which the duo carefully descended into. Francis had wisely brought a candle in a black candle holder, so Arthur, instead of being completely blind, could see a few metres in front of him. What a joy.  


“So, what brought you to Hallow?” Francis asked, slowly walking through the dark cellar.  


“Breath of fresh air.” Arthur replied vaguely. Francis was silent for a while.  


“Aha! I have found it. Follow me.” He gestured for Arthur to follow him into a small opening in the brick cellar wall.  


“Hallow is far away from everywhere. It is a long way to go on your own.” Francis commented, his voice echoing. Arthur grunted back. They seemed to be in a tunnel, just high enough to stand in.  


“I had nobody to bring with me.” Arthur said bluntly. Francis made a sympathetic sound.  


“Plague?” he asked with a gentle voice. Arthur shook his head, then realised that Francis wasn’t looking at him.  


“Fire.” He replied softly. More sympathetic sounds from Francis.  


“It is hard to lose a loved one.” Francis said quietly. He seemed about to say something else, but instead quickened his pace.

Arthur had come to the conclusion that he didn’t particularly like catacombs. The skulls that he sometimes saw wedged into the walls weren’t the nicest things he’d seen. Neither were the insects that skittered over his boots.  


“Why don’t you hide down here when night comes? Or better yet, get out of Hallow this way.” Arthur asked, his voice echoing back at him.  


“Some of us tried. Turns out the barrier is down here too. And as for staying the night down here, a young woman tried to do that last week.” Francis replied.  


“She never returned to the surface.” He gave Arthur a look of ‘if we die, it’s your fault’.

“What are we even looking for?” Francis asked, holding the candle high. They were at a crossroads of sorts. Arthur frowned.  


“Well, ghosts are dead people. So the source, the beginning of this ghost, has got to be its body, correct? We just need to find the right body.” Arthur continued.  


“And how exactly are we supposed to find the right body? We haven’t even found a complete skeleton yet.” Francis said, somewhat bemused. His features looked even more gaunt in the flickering candlelight. Arthur poked his head around one of the corners, and his eyes widened.  


“Well, I’d say we just found a good starting point…”


	6. A heart as cold as iron

Some sights and marvels are so extraordinary that ordinary speech cannot encompass the feelings that one experiences when seeing them for the first time. Arthur’s words, however, summed up his feelings quite well.  


“Bloody hell.” He said with raised eyebrows. From what he could see in the flickering candlelight, it was a burial chamber of unknown but huge proportions. The stone coffins and skeletons half hidden in dirt melted into darkness, leaving Arthur to wonder just how large the chamber was.  


“This is disrespectful to the dead…” Francis said disapprovingly. Arthur made a point of standing on a rib, which cracked in half. The ceiling was uncomfortably low so they were forced to hunch over as they explored the cavern.

“What do we look for now?” Francis asked. He winced as a worm wriggled out of the eye socket of a skull uncomfortably close to his foot.  


“Something unusual, or big.” Arthur replied absently. He squatted next to a stone casket and gestured for Francis to give him the candle. It seemed to be in the middle of the chamber, and was in suspiciously good condition compared to the other coffins. He wiped away the dust and grime from its engraved top.  


“T….. I…. N?.... O. Tino.” He murmured. The last name was too worn away to read except for the beginning ‘V’. He carefully put the candle on the ground.  


“Frenchie, help me move this.” He ordered, pushing at the heavy top. Francis joined him in the struggle to open the case, and after a few big shoves, the stone slate finally moved.

Arthur slowly looked into the stone coffin.  


“Oh.” he murmured, unimpressed. A skeleton, with arms crossed over its chest, looked up at the ceiling with eyeless sockets. A necklace lay in between its ribcage, which Arthur snaked his hand through to grab the necklace. The iron pendant was half of a heart. Must be broken, Arthur thought dismissively.  


“It’s part of a set.” Francis commented. Arthur glanced at him sharply, then looked at the necklace again. Indeed, the line he had thought was where the other half had broken off was actually where the other half slotted in. Francis gently unclasped the necklace and took it out of the coffin. He passed it to Arthur, who pocketed it.  


“Maybe we need to find the other half. Ghosts always have a reason for still sticking around, right?” Arthur mused.  


“We don’t even know if it’s a ghost.” Francis argued.  


“In all likelihood this skeleton is just of some villager from a hundred years ago.” He continued. Arthur sighed in as much of a condescending way as he could.  


“Nobody asked you to come.” He snapped.  


“Yes you did.” Francis replied, a smirk growing on his face. Arthur dismissed this perfectly valid rebuttal with a dismissive hand flick.  


“Some hope is better than none.” He said, picking up the candle. Arthur started to head back towards the entrance of the chamber, then frowned.

“Do I hear… wings?” He looked up. The ceiling in this patch was higher, so he held the candle high.  


“Oh, god.” The roof of the cave went up dramatically in a small cylindrical shaft, which was full to the brim with bats. Agitated by the sudden light, they rustled and squeaked. Blood red eyes snapped open and white fangs chittered. They were huge, at least the length of a cat. One of them opened its veiny wings.  


“Francis, let’s get the hell out of here!” Arthur hissed. He slowly started to inch away from the roost. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the femur behind him and he crashed to the ground. The candle was snuffed out and they fell into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters have been taken down and are currently being rewritten! Stay tuned!


	7. Ashes to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter has been rewritten!

Arthur’s first instinct was to grab his gun. He fumbled trying to pull it out of its holster. God, it was stuck. Bats clawed at his skin and bit him mercilessly. He felt Francis grab his hand and pull him to his feet. They ran blindly together through the chamber. The cacophony of bat wings and breaking bones made Arthur want to rip his eyes out.  


“Allez! Allez!” Francis yelled, pushing Arthur towards something. His hands hit a wall and he followed it to the exit. He practically threw himself through it and stumbled down the tunnel, shoulders hitting the stony sides again and again.

By the time he could see the faintest sliver of light, his body was buzzing with irritation - and not just from the many cuts and bruises he now sported. What the hell had they actually achieved from that venture? A necklace. Pretty, sure, but otherwise absolutely useless. At this point it had to be near evening. They’d wasted a whole day finding a bloody necklace. Arthur angrily stomped out of the tunnel and back into the dark cellar. Fortunately Francis had shoved him in the right direction - who knows how long it would have taken him to resurface if he had taken the wrong tunnel.  


“Agh!” Arthur yelped as Francis barreled into him. The frenchman’s skin was grey with dust and his hands were raw and scratched. He fell onto the floor again, pushing Francis off him as soon as he regained his balance.  


“The hell was that for?” He snapped. Francis glanced back down the tunnel.  


“I, er- well, I thought they were chasing me…” He explained lamely. Arthur tried to stay angry, but he couldn’t. Francis just looked too pitiful (and comical) to get mad. Instead he smiled a little, and helped Francis to his feet.

 

“Come on. We need to get back before night falls.” Francis said, starting to head up the cellar steps. Arthur followed close behind. He was only half way up when they heard it. That awful wail, even more melancholy and terrifying than last time. Francis froze but Arthur sprang to action.  


“Move, you idiot!” He yelled, shoulder barging Francis up the stairs. Francis stumbled up the rest of the steps and followed Arthur out of the house. It was later than Arthur had expected. The moon was just visible in the murky night sky.  


“Shit! Back inside!” Arthur yanked Francis back into the house and slammed the door. He ran up the house’s rickety stairs and dived into the first room. It was bare except for a bed and a large wardrobe. He pulled open the wardrobe doors. It would be a tight fit, but he would be hidden inside it.

The wardrobe smelled of sawdust and old clothing. Arthur fought off the urge to sneeze as he sat, curled over himself. He watched the room with a beady eye from the slightly open door of the wardrobe. It was calm. Too calm. Where was Francis? Was he safe? Arthur wondered whether he should have let Francis take the wardrobe. He had seemed much more ruffled by the Bat encounter than Arthur. 

Arthur didn't know when he had fallen asleep, but when he woke up his back hurt and his throat was hot and dry. He stumbled out of the wardrobe to find that it was early morning, the first pearly rays of light illuminating the room.  


“Francis?” He called. He checked his pocket. The necklace was still there. He was filled with new hope and determination with the new dawn. He would get out of this bloody town if it was the last thing he did - which was seeming rather likely at this point.


	8. A Grand Old Warrior Weeps

“So.” Arthur said, staring at the table in front of him.  
“We have a creepy old necklace, a dead kid, and the name ‘Tino’. Bloody foreign names.” He muttered. The small child on the barrel Arthur had seen yesterday was dead, found in a pool of his own blood. This was unusual. Francis had told Arthur this was the first time the body had been left behind.  


“Ah, _petit_ Henry, he was too young…” Francis shook his head. The way he said Henry, without the ‘H’, got on Arthur’s nerves.  


“We can cry over little ‘ _enry_ ’ later.” Arthur snapped. The necklace lay on the table, silent. As if it held so many secrets that it didn’t know where to start.  


“Somebody has to know about those bloody catacombs, right?” He pressed, picking the necklace up with one finger. Francis shrugged.  


“Like I said, they were here long before Hallow. They were only discovered after it was built, or so _ma mère_ used to tell me.” He replied. It seemed that the more on edge Francis was, the more he broke into french. Right now he was almost bouncing off the walls, thoroughly rattled by Henry’s mysterious slaughter.  


“ _Mais…_ It is very possible that Lady Heather would know the most of anyone in town.” Francis continued.  


“Could have told me that in the first place.” Arthur complained.  


“Who is this Lady Heather, anyway?”

God, all of these houses looked the same. Arthur stood on yet another dismal road - Tulip Street, apparently - facing yet another boring house. Francis gently knocked on the door.  


“She isn’t really a Duchess.” Francis warned.  


“Her mind is slightly addled with age. Just let her have her fantasy.” No sooner had he finished his sentence than the door was opened. The woman at the door was quite bony and pale, her cream dress almost the same shade as her skin. Her jawline was sharp and defined, but her blue eyes were misty and unfocused when they had clearly used to be vibrant. Grey hair was in a tidy bun.  


“Do come in.” She murmured, ushering them inside the dimly lit house.

The house smelled of concentrated old person. Arthur nearly gagged as the wave of dust and perfume hit him, covering it up with a small cough. Lady Heather was in the process of serving them tea, which looked like the tea leaves had been used multiple times. They probably had.  


“Be a dear and pass me my handkerchief.” Lady Heather asked, slowly sitting in a creaky chair.  


“Uh, here, ma’am.” Arthur passed her the crusty handkerchief. She blew her nose with utmost delicacy.  


“And how can I help you two fine gentlemen today?” She asked with a smile. Francis coughed politely.  


“We were wondering, Lady Heather, if you could tell us what you know about the catacombs underneath Hallow?” He asked. Lady Heather smiled a little.  


“Back in my days as a Duchess, I was the adventurous type.” She said. Arthur shot Francis a look.  


“I would often go down to those tunnels, never far in, mind you. My father was the one who discovered them, only a few years after Hallow was built. He said they were left there from a civilisation of savages long ago.” She continued.  


“They found swords down there, and armour. My father was a man of the world, you see, and recognised them instantly. They were left there by warrior men from the north.” She said in a hushed voice.  


“The North, like Sunderland?” Arthur replied a little rudely. If Lady Heather heard the sarcasm, she ignored it.  


“North like Norway, and Sweden.” She said. Arthur had never heard of either of these places but he nodded anyway. Must be in Scotland somewhere.  


“They were people of war and magic, barbarians I tell you. My father used to sing a lullaby of them - even their songs were of bloodshed. He had heard it on a voyage to Sweden.” Lady Heather smiled and started to sing in a soft, quiet voice.  


_“In the misty mountains_  
_A grand old warrior sleeps_  
_In his misty mountain home_  
_This grand old warrior weeps_  
_For he has lost his only love_  
_In a most terrible fire_  
_Two hearts of gold are ripped apart_  
_And changed with hearts of iron”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> petit - small  
> ma mère - my mother  
> mais - but


	9. Memories

Arthur had never bolted out of a house so fast. There’s another necklace, he thought, as he ran down the street. It had to be in the catacombs somewhere. A body, buried in a different grave, its ghost yearning to be with its loved one. But the woman’s song echoed in his ears. ‘For he has lost his only love, in a most terrible fire’. Coincidence, of course, but it hurt him all the same. He didn’t want to remember. He wanted to bury those thoughts, those images, until he forgot them forever. Instead, Alfred’s voice was clear in his head.  


_“Arthur, I don’t care what anyone says. I love you.”_  


_“Arthur! God, get out of here! All of London’s burning!”_ His breaths came in jagged gasps. Alfred’s terrified face as he stood in the middle of their tiny house, flames separating them. His screams as his flesh burned to ash. Arthur knew how the ghost felt. Angry, alone, wanting to murder everyone because goddamnit the person who he loved died so why can’t everyone else?

He collapsed in the cellar. He’d finally found someone who knew his pain, and it was a ghost. He finally realised what he had become. In the end, Arthur was the real ghost. Great heaving sobs that he’d been stifling for years poured out. It didn’t feel good to cry and wail. It felt empty. It was too late to grieve, he’d missed his chance. Now he could only try to fill the gaping hole in his chest where love once existed. But he cried anyway. He didn’t notice Francis until he found himself being held tightly in his arms.  


“It’s alright, let it out…” Francis murmured. He cried until he fell asleep, exhausted from his first show of emotion in years.

Arthur woke to find himself still in the cellar. His head rested on a thin yellow pillow and a threadbare blanket was draped over him. His eyes were still a little puffy but he ignored their burning.  


“Francis?” He called quietly. Panic started to stir in his gut. Had he slept a whole day? Had Francis wandered off and been attacked?  


“Francis!” He called with more urgency, standing up. Then he saw a figure emerge from the catacomb tunnel.  


“It’s alright, I’m here.” Francis said soothingly. Arthur tried to act normal but he was too emotionally exhausted to make a snarky reply. Instead he nodded a little and dropped the blanket he realised he was clutching onto for dear life. In Francis’ hand he held a candle and a piece of parchment. In the other hand was a small pot of ink, and tucked behind his ear was a quill.  


“I went back to Tino’s grave.” He explained.  


“I found some writing on the side and scribed it down, but it’s in a strange language. Have you ever seen this before?” He asked, handing Arthur the parchment. The writing was in impeccable handwriting but was incomprehensible. Some letters had dashes above them, and the words made no sense to Arthur.  


“Would Lady Heather know how to read this?” He asked. Francis shrugged.  


“We can ask.”

Lady Heather did know. But it took them two hours, a cup of weak tea and several tales of her days as a Duchess to get her to translate the writing. She squinted at the parchment and pursed her lips.  


“My father taught me this language as a child. I’ve forgotten how to speak it, but I can read a little. Hmm..” If Lady Heather pursed her lips any more, Arthur was sure they’d disappear into her wrinkles and folds. He still felt tired but he tried to hide it behind sips of disgusting tea.  


“This speaks of Valhalla. Dear me, I can’t remember what that part means. This line is about brothers and sisters. Then it says, I think, ‘Love is lost. But remembered, in water as clear as night.’ I’m sorry, I don’t understand any more.” Lady Heather delicately put the parchment down and picked up her empty cup, nursing it in frail hands.  


“Thank you so much, Lady Heather.” Francis said with a smile. Arthur was half out the door by the time Francis managed to escape Lady Heather’s fussing.

“God, she’s difficult.” Arthur muttered.  


“I was itching to just thrust the writing at her and smash that bloody teacup! I can still taste it, like i’ve been swilling dirt.” He complained. Francis smiled a little.  
“She has done us a great service. But this has created more questions than answers. Tino’s lover is remembered in ‘water as clear as night’. What does that mean?” Francis frowned. Arthur sighed.  


“God, I don’t know. Let’s just sit down for a while, I’m exhausted.” He plopped down on the side of the road, and with a lack of anything better to do, Francis sat down beside him. They sat in silence for a while, watching the sun pass the middle of the sky.  


“You lived here all your life?” Arthur asked suddenly. Francis nodded.  


“Must have been pretty boring as a kid.” Arthur commented. Francis started to nod, then frowned, confused.  


“I, ah. Don’t remember much about that.” Francis mumbled. Then a smirk grew.  


“What, so living in London was better?” He replied. Arthur grinned.  


“Oh, yeah. You could be Jack, Jack, nimble and hopping, jumping right over the smelly horse droppings.” He sang and they both laughed.  


“My house was near a small square, so it wasn’t too bad. I could listen to the musicians, and pickpocket from people watching jugglers. I was also close to a well so I didn’t get sick half as much as the kids I played with.” He continued. He smiled a little, remembering the fun he’d had. He’d liked that little well as a kid. It was disgustingly dirty now that he thought about it, but much better than the water others collected from puddles. Wait.  


“Well.” Arthur repeated.  


“Well?” Francis asked teasingly.  


“No, you idiot, the well!” Arthur cried.  


“That’s where the other necklace is!”


	10. Timeless

The well sat silently, its bucket sitting on the grass beside it. Arthur checked the sides with a sharp eye as Francis looked down into the water below.  


“I don’t see anything - wait, no, I see something floating on the water. I think it’s a feather.” Francis said, spitting out a long blond hair. Arthur smirked. Francis’ horrifically feminine hair wasn’t lending him any favours now, was it.  


“Urgh, the more I look at this water, the more it disgusts me. I can’t believe I drink this.” Francis said with a wrinkled nose. He leaned out further.  


“Don’t fall in, you idiot.” No sooner had Arthur uttered the words than he heard a yell. 

“ _Merde!_ ” Francis yelped as he held onto the well’s side for dear life, his legs dangling into the cylindrical darkness. Arthur poked his head over the edge and fought off a laugh. Francis looked ridiculous. He grabbed Francis’ hand and started to pull him up.  


“Bloody hell, you’re heavy for a scrawny piece of shit.” Arthur muttered. Francis made a vague noise of disapproval. Arthur felt oddly pleased to be holding Francis’ hand, as bony and delicate as it was. A feeling somewhat reminiscent of what he had felt holding Alfred’s hands. Suddenly Francis made another vague noise, but louder.  
“There’s an arrow engraved on the brick!” He called up, his voice echoing.  


“Go right - wait, no - your left!” Francis commanded. Arthur raised an eyebrow but slowly heaved Francis to the right, holding onto his arm with both hands.  
“More…. More… More- wait, stop!” Francis’ voice drifted up and Arthur obediently stopped. There was a sound of scratching, then of something scraping. After a pause of a few seconds something heavy splashed into the water below.  


“Holy shit. Arthur, we found it.”

Pulling Francis up had been no easy feat. But eventually the two sat, backs against the well’s stone side, staring at the new necklace Francis now held. It was iron and the same size as the other necklace. It looked like it would slot perfectly into the other half of the heart.  


“Are you ready?” Francis asked gently. Arthur rolled his eyes.  


“Of course, frog.” He replied, plunging his hand into his pocket. Then his eyes widened.  


“Shit.” He said.  


“Shit shit shit!” He stood up and looked about wildly. Francis groaned.  


“You lost it?!” He moaned in disbelief.  


“I must have left it at Lady Heather’s.” Arthur replied, mentally kicking himself.

Francis shook his head with a slight smile on his face. They walked quickly through the empty streets, with Francis holding onto the necklace with an ironically iron grip.  


“This is biggest letdown since _ma mère_ told me King Edward had taken the throne.” Francis commented with a mischievous smile. Arthur raised an eyebrow.  


“Edward? You’ve been living in a hole. King Charles rules England.” He replied. Francis frowned.  


“No, it’s definitely Edward.” He replied. Arthur smirked.  


“Edward the sixth hasn’t reigned for years.” He informed a confused Francis. This seemed to confuse him more.  


“The sixth? There has been no other Edward that ruled England.” He insisted. Arthur started to frown.  


“Why are you so bloody stubborn? You bloody peasant villages wouldn’t know the year if it slapped you in the face.” Arthur muttered. Francis huffed indignantly.  
“I’ll have you know it’s the winter of 1302, you insufferable Englishman.”

1302\. Arthur’s heart stopped.  


“Say that again.” He said, slowing to a stop.  


“You insufferable Englishman.” Francis said with a grin. Arthur glared at him furiously.  


“The date!” He barked, surprising Francis.  


“1302.” He stammered. Arthur shook his head, starting to back away.  


“It’s 1670.” He said slowly. Francis’ brow furrowed but he still grinned.  


“Stop pulling my leg, we have more important things to do than jest.” He said, but Arthur was already running. This had to be some kind of mistake. Francis was tired, hungry, anxious. People say silly things. Arthur eventually stopped at Lucille’s grave. He saw the small writing below her name that he’d missed the first time. He let out a choked sob.  


‘ _Lucille. Departed this Earth December the Second, 1302._ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merde = shit


	11. Fleeting Feelings, Fleeting Souls

Arthur’s head spun. This couldn’t be right. He wanted Francis to laugh and say it was all a big joke. But in his gut he knew. Oh god.  


“Arthur, what are you doing?” Francis’ gentle voice asked from behind him. Arthur realised a stream of tears was running down his face. He turned to face Francis, face red.  


“What the hell are you?” He yelled.  


“Are you dead? A ghost? This is life fucking teasing me!” He gave a mirthless laugh.  


“This is what I deserve, for letting myself get attached to someone!” He continued, tears still dripping from his nose. Francis slowly stepped towards him.  


“Calm down. What is this all about?” He murmured. Arthur swallowed, his throat burning.  


“Tell me about your childhood.” He demanded. Francis paused, startled.  


“I- I, uh-” He stammered.  


“Tell me about your mother and Lucille.” Arthur yelled. Francis stared, at a loss.  


“I… I… I don’t remember them.” He said, face paling in realisation.  


“I don’t remember them.” He repeated quietly. His hands started to tremble.  


“I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. Oh god, who am I? What am I?” Francis’ breaths came in gasps. He stared at his shaking hands.

“You’re a ghost.” Arthur didn’t fully absorb the words until he had said them. Francis stared at him in horror.  


“I can’t be dead. I can feel things. I can feel happiness, and caring. I know because I care for you.” Francis admitted quietly. Arthur could only stare.  


“What happens when we stop the ghost that’s killing people? Do I disappear as well? Am I going to live - no - spend my death forever in this town, haunted by him and grieving for someone who died so long ago that I can’t remember her face?” Francis asked. Arthur just shook his head slowly.  


“I don’t care if I disappear. I’m getting you out of here.” Francis said fiercely.  


“No! You can’t go. You can’t be dead. You made me feel again. Before I met you everything was dead, flat, boring. Now I can remember what it’s like to feel something other than grief and anger.” Arthur said with more tears welling. Francis seemed to want to say something, but he couldn't. Instead he started to walk away.  


"I'm going to get you out of here." He said, fist holding the necklace so tight his knuckles were white.  


"Francis, wait-" Arthur reached out to him, but he couldn't move. his boots felt nailed to the ground. 

His world was collapsing in on itself. Five minutes ago and he'd been sure of escape, perhaps even toying with the fantasy of travelling with Francis across the moors. Gone in seconds, by a harmless comment. He stared at the back of Francis' head as he walked away. Such stupid hair, blonde and long. Hair that didn't exist. Hair that was only the fading memory of a man that died centuries ago. As those stupid, beautiful locks of hair disappeared from his view, Arthur finally managed to move. He ran. He ran to Lady Heather's faster than he had ever run, yelling 'Francis!' over and over again.

He slammed the door open. He couldn't hear anything. Francis was pressing the two halves of the necklace together. Arthur yelled something. He didn't know what. Alfred flashed before his eyes. Burning. Reaching out to Arthur. Disappearing. His vision tunnelled. He was holding onto Francis tightly. The Frenchman was collapsed in his arms. Two figures appeared. Illuminated and translucent, their bodies pressed together as they kissed gently. Slowly they faded and disappeared. Arthur still couldn't hear anything but he knew he was screaming. Francis looked up at him with blue eyes so full of life, so full of pain. Arthur could see what he said. "Don't leave me." I won't, I won't, Arthur sobbed again and again. He kissed Francis' forehead, trembling violently. He could see through Francis. Oh god. And then he was holding nothing.


	12. Dust to Dust

The town of Hallow was falling apart. Arthur slowly looked up as the roof above him creaked and groaned. Three hundred years of deterioration, all happening at once. Arthur looked down at his lap. Where were Francis’ locks of golden hair? Where were his sparkling blue eyes? Something snapped in the roof above him. He finally tore himself away from the spot and stumbled out of the room. Lady Heather was nowhere to be seen.

The noise was intolerable. Brittle wood was breaking everywhere and sending the houses smashing to the ground in clouds of dust and gravel. Arthur ducked as a roof tile crashed to the ground by his feet. He ran down the road, blinking as tears obscured his vision. This wasn’t fair. God, none of it was fair. Arthur ducked again as more tiles came flying down. One of them hit his shoulder and exploded into dust, but it still hurt and Arthur nearly fell over. 

Finally he was out of town, at the dead corn field. Even Lucille’s grave was eroding, half of it gone. All that could be read was ‘Luc’. Arthur slowly sat down, staring at the town behind him. The rubble itself was disappearing, leaving only dirt behind. The only thing left was the well. He lay down on the grass, staring up at the grey skies above. Maybe if he lay still as a statue, he would wake up from this nightmare. Anything would be better than this. This agony in his heart. It wasn’t just the pain from losing Francis. It was the pain of accepting Alfred’s death. Ignored wounds had become infected in time. And these ones couldn't be healed. He reached over to Lucille’s gravestone and gently touched it. Grit came off on his fingers.

-

Anybody in Learchester would have told you it was inevitable. The ‘strange young man’ had only lived there two weeks. He was violent and reckless, picking fights and often losing. Only the old woman whom he rented a room from would have told you different. She would have murmured about his night terrors, the times she saw the pain in his eyes. Nobody was surprised when he was found on the floor of his room, a bullet in his skull and a pistol in his hand. Just another young man throwing his life away, they would say, shaking their head in disapproval. They would forget him in weeks. Nobody would remember the strange young man with the pain-filled eyes.


End file.
